


Holmes and Moriarty

by Nevermore9



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Erotic Scenes, M/M, Moriarty Does Some Twisted Stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevermore9/pseuds/Nevermore9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the grand detective and criminal mastermind, both Holmes and Moriarty were mere children. Children who happen to meet at a Victorian gathering and together become tangled up in a web of suspicion and murder. All the while Mycroft tries desperately to hide his dark secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holmes and Moriarty

Small black buckled shoes clicked on white marble. Tiny red lips became rosey pale as they exhaled breath in rough, eager pants. Slim legs garbed in tan knickers and dressed with plaid knee-socks rapidly strode down the large expanse of hallway. Pumping steadily like pistons, rolling like a steam engine; filled with excitement, impatience, and a growing fatigue that weighed heavy on the boys stomach. Heaving inwards and outwards as each breath dulled his fervor, his almond eyes catching sight of the rail and fueling his flurry with an added haste that his goal seemed so close in eyesight. His heels dug into the sleek marble as he skuffled across the floor, sliding into his destination and balancing himself on the rail atop the cascading stair. He steadied himself upon impact of the mahogany baluster into his flank; but despite the brush of pain crashing into his ribcage, he flashed a large sunshiny grin.  
"Mycroft!" The name bounced off the boy's tongue with elation upon catching sight of the young nineteen year old brunette gentleman in the frock coat, twede vest, and light trousers, at the base of the white marble staircase.  
"Sherlock!" The man shouted back to his little brother, in a greeting tone, as the boy bound down the stairs in his tan knickerboxer suit with such vigor that Mycroft thought he would surely tumble down on his face if he hadn't lept into the older's outstreched arms.  
Mycroft spun the little twelve year old around in his arms before setting him down on the ground, petting the boy's hazel head of hair with a fondness that indicated to the year of seperation between the two.  
"Mycroft." The boy said aloud once more, tasting the old name as it tumbled off his tongue. It felt as though h hadn't spoken it in over a decade, but he had thought about it often.  
"How long will you be staying?" The younger questioned, gazing up at his older brother with tender expansive eyes that caught the light of the afternoon sun in just a way as to give the illusion of twinkling stars in a deep sky.  
"Oh, about a week or so." Mycroft replied, cracking a faint smile, as he was beginning to feel the exhaustgen of taking the early-morning train in from Cambridge, followed by a less than polished coach voyage, which put quite a great deal of strain on his lower back.  
Seeing the sulk in Sherlock's smile, at the unfortunately limited time the two would have together before departure back to university, Mycroft decided to shift the conversation in a more chipper direction.  
"You know, I've brought you a little gift, Sherlock."  
The young boy's ears perked up like a Pavlovian dog at the ringing of a bell, insinuating a slight chuckle from Mycroft who adored his own power of illiciting distinct reactions from his younger brother.  
Mycroft delved into his small leather duffle bag that he had set down beside him and produced a standard leather bound book, holding it out to Sherlock.  
"The Scarlett Letter, got it from one of my Yankee friends. I'll read it to you if you'd like."  
Sherlock pounced fotward like a leopard, reaching hungrily for the book, but his grasp fell short as his sadistic brother lifted it above his head, so he could only watch it dangle there, unreachable.  
"First." Said Mycroft teasingly, with a mischevious smirk on his face. "A little smile." His words serving to only deepen Sherlock's impatient glare; to which the older man countered with a roll of his shoulders and forced sigh as he breathed out "Unless you don't want it." trying to come across disappointed but being unsuccessful to supress a smirk.  
The twelve year old silently scowled at his older brother for another moment or two before reluctantly succumbing to the tempting promise of being read an unfamiliar novel. His face contored as the corners of his mouth were forced upward, flashing an awkward and toothy grin, that appeared more of a grimace than a smile; but Mycroft deemed it suitable and lowered his hands to the greedy paws of Sherlock.  
"Don't you dare touch the first page 'till tonight, Young Man." Mycroft taunted playfully. "Here, a little insentive." He went on, digging into his trouser pocket and tossing Sherlock a small penny chocolate, who gratefully snatched it from the air with nimble dexterity. "Consider it a bribe." The nineteen year old stated smugly.  
Sherlock smirked at his brother's comment, mindlessly tearing the wrapper open and popping the sweet into his gluttonous mouth.  
"I wonder what sort of handsome gentleman would visit me just before I've finished my noon-time meal?" The voice came soft and tender, with an esteemed dignity, though jovial and loving.  
"Hello, Mother." Mycroft addressed the eminent and revered woman entering the foyer, with high features, and slightly wrinkled laugh lines though still young in appearence; adorned in a fine sky blue silk gown with a lighter bodice.  
"Mycroft, it's been ages." She said with a solemn smile, struggling to hold back her yearning excitement in exchange for a more lady-like character. "How've you been, Darling?"  
"I've been quite well, Mother." Mycroft replied, planting soft kisses on each of his matriarch's cheeks as she leaned in to receive them.  
"Shall I show you to the quarters you'll be occupying while here?"  
"That's quite all right, Mother, I know the way. Finish your meal, I wouldn't want to interupt, would I now?" The nineteen year old replied, gathering his luggage, with some assistance from the underbutler, and making his way past Sherlock and up the marble stair to settle his belongings into his room for the week.  
***  
The cool orange flame flickered in respiration, like a dragon's tongue. Casting a warm glow on the expierenced and instructed nineteen year old face, and just scantily licking the innocent features of a younger twelve year old, snugly coiled in silk bedsheets and a white nightshirt. Abrubtly a great wind stretched out and silenced the flame tongue, leaving only the pale glow of dim moonlight to illuminate the bedroom.  
"All else had vanished!" The closing words of the second chapter still hung in the air as the candle shimmered its last before dieing out. Mycroft gently closed the book between his fingers, setting it down on the mahogany nightstand, beside the now dead candle. Sherlock's glimmering eyes were still visible in the light of the moon, beating with a fire more passionate than the candle flame. Mycroft could tell his brother was not yet satisfied, he wanted more of the story, to be engulfed in the world. He wanted to know, to learn, they were comparable in that way; but Mycroft was exasperated, and he could tell Sherlock was too, though he wouldn't show it.  
"Just a little more." Sherlock pleaded sleepily, trying his best to come across awake and lively, but his sagging eyes and flat lethargic demeanor betrayed him.  
"Sherlock, if I started to read another chapter you wouldn't be able to make out every other word; and by the time I was half way through you'd be comatose."  
"Ok." Sherlock replied, seeming dissapointed but knowing his brother, like usual, was in fact correct.  
"Good boy." Mycroft approved, stroking a firm hand through Sherlock's copper hair, and arching down to deposite a delicate kiss on the boy's forehead.  
Sherlock in turn glimmered a lethargic grin and bid "good night." Head sinking comfortably into fine silk trappings.  
Mycroft quietly wished the same, already in the doorway. He turned, entering into the expanse of the hallway, most of the lighting hy now had been extinguished, leaving a solemn almost tranquil atmosphere in the aged estate.  
"Lord Mycroft." Came the hushed voice of an elderly approaching maid.  
The man addressed the wrinkled woman, adorned in a white dress and black shawl.  
"Sir, I was just putting out the lighting for the night, and wanted to know if you'd be retiring now." The aged woman spoke gently, though softly, in respect for the resting young Sherlock.  
"Carry on." Mycroft returned, in the same reserved tone. "Just leave the fireplace alight. I think I'll stay up some."  
"Very good, Sir." She respectively replied, dismissing herself with a slight bow, to busily continue her work.  
The young Mycroft leaned his palms into the railing, overlooking the drawingroom. He sighed, exhaling through his nose, mulling over the day's tense events. He took small comfort in the, as requested, still kindling fireplace, casting a nourishing glow onto Mycroft's hardened and dignified features.  
A pang of guilt flickered in his chest, like the flame of the hearth his eyes so desperately clung to, searing his heart at the grim revelry in his family. He was ashamed he could pleasure himself so after what he had done earlier. Mycroft urgently suppressed his shame, lacking his will to stomach his grizly deeds would drive him surely mad.

**Author's Note:**

> A short beginning chapter, things will get thicker soon enough.


End file.
